


Formed of Dust

by cherie_morte



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Crossover, Daemon Separation, Daemon Touching, Daemons, His Dark Materials Inspired, M/M, Same-Sex Daemons, Soulless Sam Winchester, season 6 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11098911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: His Dark Materials Fusion:Ever since Sam was a little kid he's been different, whether it was his male daemon or the mysterious Dust only Sam could see. Now he's trapped in the underworld after saving the planet, separated from his brother, his daemon, and even his body. Dean and his wolf daemon Trixin try to take care of Xantherios, Sam's dying raven daemon, but they're both starting to give up hope. When Sam returns, cold and seemingly indifferent to both his brother and his own daemon, they think they've lost him forever. At least until Castiel arrives and tells Dean that the secret to saving Sam from Hell and reconnecting soul and body lies in the Dust Dean only ever half believed in. Desperate to save his brother, Dean faces an unimaginable horror to enter the underworld and bring Sam back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of my 2012 [sncross_bigbang](http://sncross-bigbang.livejournal.com/) originally posted [here](http://infatuated-ink.livejournal.com/71322.html). The beautiful art is by [machidieles](http://machidieles.livejournal.com/), who unfortunately seems to have deleted their LiveJournal, but in case it's ever reactivated, you can find the art [here](http://machidieles.livejournal.com/963.html).

The first time Sam sees it he's eight years old.

He tugs on Dean's sleeve with his little hands and points up, just above Dean.

"Dust," he says. Dean kneels so he's on level with his kid brother, and Sam reaches out, swatting around Dean's head like he's trying to catch fireflies. Dean looks up, worried they've got some kind of sandstorm coming for them, but he doesn't see anything.

He thinks Sam is playing a game he doesn't recognize. "What're you talking about, Sammy?"

Sam giggles, like Dean is being ridiculous, and continues waving his arms around. "Dust!" he repeats. Sitting on Sam's shoulder, Xanthe has taken a squirrel's form, and he looks up at Dean, nodding very seriously.

Dean shakes his head, pretending to reach out for some. Sam frowns, his hands dropping, and Xanthe shifts into a very stern-looking pelican. "There isn't any there," Sam says. "Can't you see it? It's only around you."

Dean shrugs apologetically and looks down at Trixin. She's a golden retriever right now, sniffing at Dean's leg like she's looking for whatever Sam and his daemon are going on about.

After a few seconds of investigating she looks up at Dean and gives a subtle shake of her head, apparently as lost as he is. "No, Sammy. I don't see anything."

"It's pretty," Sam says. "I like it."

"What's it look like?"

"Bright gold," Xanthe tells him, hopping from Sam's shoulder to the ground and shifting to a black retriever. He headbutts Trixin in the side, and she lets him nose at her coat, using it to illustrate his point.

"It's glowing and floating and falling on you," Sam adds before he shoves Dean's shoulder, not unlike the way his daemon just did to Trixin. "It's right there! How can you not see it? Are you stupid or something?"

Dean doesn't like looking stupid in front of Sam. "Of course I can see it," he lies. "I was just kidding. I can't believe you fell for it."

Sam smiles, almost looking relieved. "Let's chase it," he says, jumping up excitedly. "I want to chase it."

If it's only around Dean, he's not sure how he's supposed to chase it, but he nods anyway and takes off running in a random direction. Trixin shifts into a swallow, knowing Sam's daemon usually favors bird shapes, and flies at his side. Sure enough Xanthe catches up with them in a few moments, flashing bright colors as the parrot flaps his wings. Only Sam, his legs still too short for running, is left trying to catch up.

Dean can hear Sam laughing the whole way as he trails after them. Every now and then when he's tired or when Sam's laughter sounds too winded he stops and lets Sam catch him, tackle him to the ground, and try to attack the Dust around him.

It's as good as any game, and it keeps Sam happy for hours. They're still at it by the time Dad comes to the playground to pick them up that night. Dean spots Soleria before he sees Dad, the panther slipping quiet and unseen from one shadow to the next, patrolling the grounds to make sure they're safe. Dad's daemon can walk almost 50 yards away from John without either of them feeling a thing, because Dad's daemon is the coolest ever.

Dean lets Sam have one last win when he spots Dad waiting at the park entrance, tumbles into the grass and pretends to try to escape as Sam and two pairs of beaks all rain down on him, pecking around for Dust, laughing and attempting to catch their breath.

"What're you boys doing?" Dad asks when they're done. He's smiling, so Dean thinks he must be in a good mood tonight. He won’t be mad they got dirty and kept playing after he arrived and maybe Dean can even talk him into getting pizza for dinner. There's a place just down the block from the motel they're staying at that has those menus Sam loves so much, the ones you can draw on with crayons.

He stands, trying to brush the grass stains off his jeans, and then helps Sam up.

"Chasing Dust!" Sam replies, grinning brightly and running to Dad for a hug.

Dad doesn't pick him up or keep smiling, and from the look on his face, Dean is pretty sure there won't be any pizza tonight. "What do you mean, Sam?"

"Dust," Sam tells him again, his voice a little huffy from having to explain this so many times in one day. He points up at Dean. "See?"

Dad's frown just deepens. He turns to Dean, and suddenly Dean feels like he's been caught doing something very bad. "Do you see any Dust, Dean?"

Dean peers down at Sam, feeling guilty for lying to his brother and hoping he's making the right choice now. "No, sir. We were just playing."

Sam gives Dean a betrayed look that makes Dean avert his eyes to Dad's face. Dad looks a little relieved, but he's still edgy. He turns to Sam, gets on one knee so he can look Sam right in the eye. "There's no Dust, Sam," he tells him sternly. "You hear me? You never mention it again."

"But there is," Sam insists, stomping his foot. "I saw it. Xanthe saw it, too."

Dad shakes him a little. "Stop it," he says. "Stop it right now. There's no such thing as Dust."

Sam's eyes widen and his bottom lip trembles. Dean can't tell why it means so much to him, but he knows from the way Dad's face is set in forced, uncompromising lines that Dust does exist, even if Dean can't see it. He's lying to Sam. Dad is giving Sam that look Dean hates, the one he can't help wearing sometimes when they're out in public and someone realizes Sam's daemon is a boy. He tries to hide that he's ashamed, maybe even scared of Sam, but Dean sees it in his eyes, and he thinks Sam probably can too. Sam, who knows everything at eight years old and sometimes has to pretend he doesn't because most people can't appreciate him. It isn't fair.

"Say it, Sam," Dad orders after a long silence.

Sam's cheeks are wet with tears when he replies. "There's no Dust. I made it up."

The daemons are a few feet away acting out their own version of this scene. Through Trixin's ears, Dean hears Soleria say, "You too, Xanthe," and Xanthe repeats Sam's words exactly, with just as little conviction but a lot more defiance in his tone.

"Good," Dad says, even though Sam is crying, and Dean doesn't understand how that could ever be good. He stands back up, giving Sam a little pat on the shoulder. "Hey, no need to cry, okay? I'm not mad as long as you promise not to do it again."

He walks on a little and passes Dean as Dean is trying to get to Sam's side. "Don't encourage him when he's like this," Dad tells him.

They ride home in silence, have dinner in silence, and then go straight to bed. Sam is still visibly upset; he spends the rest of the night alternating between staring at the empty space above Dean's head and trying not to let Dad catch him, turning his face away too quickly.

That night, Sam crawls into Dean's bed. Instead of telling Sam they're too old, Dean shuffles enough to make room for him. Trixin shifts into something big and warm and licks the remaining salt off Sam's face, and Dean feels Sam wrap his arms around the daemon's neck, laughing sad and quiet. Dean sleeps better than he should with someone between him and Trixin.

It's the same day Xantherios settles and becomes the pitch black raven Dean spends so much of the rest of his life clinging to. He changes in the back seat of the Impala on the way home, when Dean has an arm wrapped around Sam, who is still trying so hard not to cry, or at least not cry loud enough to be heard.

Sam is only _eight_ , way too young for his daemon to take permanent shape, so the change goes unnoticed for a few days. Until the daemon keeps not changing. Dad grits his teeth and tells Dean not to worry about it when he points it out, and Dean tries not to feel like it's his fault that Sam is growing up so quickly.

_______________________________________________________________

"Just don't say anything this time," Sam snaps at his daemon on the way to their first day of school. "Everyone will hate us if you do."

Dean bites his bottom lip and does his best not to get involved. It's not right, coming between someone's interactions with their own daemon. Dean never used to respect that, because Sam never expected him to. Xanthe was his daemon just as much as Sam's, same as Trixin will always be more Sam's than Dean's. But ever since Dean told him about hunting, Sam's been obsessed with being normal, which means Dean has to observe at least some rules of proper social behavior or he'll never hear the end of it.

Dean keeps his thoughts to himself when Sam starts in on how important it is that they appear normal, just presses his lips together tighter and looks away. Sam could never be normal. Not because of his male daemon, or the fact that they've been to twenty different schools in the last four years and still no one in Sam's grade has ever had a settled daemon. Not even because, although he never mentions it again in public and rarely brings it up to Dean, sometimes Sam gazes out at thin air, and Dean knows that, whatever Dust is, his brother is tracking it as it floats from one place to the next. Sam can't be normal because he's Sam, Dean's Sam, and no one normal could ever hope to be like Sam.

Sam used to hate pretending as much as Dean hated having to be the one to remind him of all Dad's rules. Don't let Xanthe talk, someone will notice he's a boy and they'll have trouble. Pretend he changes sometimes or they'll have trouble. Don't talk about Dust goes unsaid, but when Sam breaks that rule and whispers to him about it, Dean is always too content being let in on the secret to remember to discourage him. He still doesn't get it. He will probably never get it. But Sam brings it up sometimes, giddy like he can't hold it in, which he hardly is about anything after the Christmas he steals Dad's journal.

Even if Dust is real, Dean can't imagine why it's so exciting to Sam. It's just some glowy shit as far as he can tell, but Sam swears it's not like that. It's too beautiful, and it feels special, and he just knows it means something big. He likes Dust. It's the one thing that isn't normal that Sam can't help loving about himself, so Dean can't bring himself to heap shame onto it. Sam could stay up all night rambling on about it, and Dean has lost count of the nights he's fallen asleep just listening to the rise and fall of Sam talking and talking or watching the way his brother's face lights up.

He hardly does that these days, though. Kid is a goddamn angst factory. It's been almost a year since Sam confided in him. He doesn't want to talk to Dean about Dust or anything most of the time, just shuts himself up in his room. It's not bullies; Dean would prefer it if it were. He's used to dealing with bullies, people have been picking on Sam his whole life, and Dean has been proud to kick their asses right back. It's this constant assertion that he _doesn't have any friends_ and _will never make any until he can pass for normal_ that rips Dean in half. He used to think he was Sam's friend.

"You're 12, Sam," he says, trying to sound reassuring. "Daemons should start settling pretty soon. A month or two tops and it'll be perfectly normal."

Dean can see his brother glaring at him in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, great," he says. "Then I'll just be the freaky new kid with the male daemon."

Xanthe pecks at Sam's cheek, affectionate even at a time like this, and Dean silently wonders where the hell that raven gets so much patience for this crap.

"Could be worse," Trixin says. Dean looks over as he pulls into a parking spot and turns off the car. She's a coyote right now, and she's watching Dean with a mischievous expression on her face. "You could be 16 and still not have the maturity to settle a daemon."

Dean reaches out, swatting at her ears, and even Sam has to laugh. Dean is probably the first person in history to still be unsettled years after losing his virginity, but he likes it just fine. Trixin can be whatever Sam needs at any given time, and Dean thinks it'll come in handy once Dad lets him come along on jobs, which should be any day. He just had his birthday; Dad promised Dean could hunt when he turned 16.

"Well, whose fault is that, Trixie?"

The coyote growls and jumps out of the car when Sam opens the door on the passenger's side for her. Dean rushes to grab his shit and get out, uncomfortable from the tug of her being outside while he's still in.

Halfway through the day, Dean gets called out of class. His father is there to get him for a doctor's appointment, the teacher says. He knows instinctively what it really means. His whole body is buzzing with excitement as he walks to the office, so much so that Trixin turns into a bee and flies by his ear, teasing him with her own buzzing sound.

Dean asks Dad if he can wait until lunch to leave so he can find Sam and give him instructions on how to get back to the motel, what food will be waiting for him in the fridge, and how to warm it up. Sam rolls his eyes and tells Dean to quit worrying and says good luck. Then at the last minute, as Sam is getting ready to turn away, he throws his arms around Dean's shoulders and holds him tight, and Dean knows he's not the only one worrying.

He doesn't think there's anything to worry about. Not until he sees what he's up against. Not until there's the broken body of a 14-year-old kid—much older and bigger than Sam—sitting at his feet, snapped in half by one strong claw. Trixin has shifted into a hound for the hunt, and when she puts her nose to the boy's body to sniff him, Dean can practically taste blood in the back of his throat.

"Stop it," he snaps at her, because the whole thing is too much for him. He can't stop his mind from picturing his brother up against this thing. In a few years, Sam will be coming on hunts with them. Dean will be bringing him into this. Trixin whimpers and scampers a few feet away from both Dean and the corpse.

Maybe it's that noise that alerts the monster of their presence. The water behind the house begins to bubble up just moments later, and Dad snaps out something about keeping that damn daemon under control. 

When the chuul surfaces from the swamp, Dad tells Dean it's his kill. Trixin is useless—she's no hunting daemon like Soleria, not yet at least. She changes from the hound to a rat and climbs up Dean quickly. She's trembling violently by the time she reaches his shoulder, and she hides her face in the collar of his jacket.

Dean's hands are shaking something awful; he worries he'll panic just like his daemon did as it charges toward them. But he looks down at that kid again, someone else's Sam, and he lets his arrow fly. It hits home, silver piercing through the creature's shell and right into its heart. Dean thinks the kill will make him feel strong, but the crossbow in his hands drops heavily onto the floor just like the monster. One down, and who knows how many more are still out there to hurt his little brother?

Dad says he's proud of Dean. He's in a rare good mood on the drive home; he even offers to stop at a bar, grab a few victory beers. Dean has several fake IDs after all, and if he's old enough to kill he's damn well old enough to have a round with his old man. Marine logic. It’s the kind of life Dean has been dreaming about for ages, but he says no. All he wants right now is to get home and wash the blood off his hands and make sure his brother has not been broken in the hours since he left.

Sam is waiting up for him when they get home. He stays in their room with the light off, so Dad and Dean both think he's asleep until Dean gets in and shuts the door behind him. He hears rustling immediately, and a light flickers on. Sam is sitting up in bed, his hand still on the switch.

"Well," he says. "Did you get it? Was it awesome?"

Dean knows his brother well enough to know Sam is faking enthusiasm for his sake. And he wants to be able to fake it back, he really does, but instead his legs give out. He sits at the foot of Sam's bed and hides his face in his hands before he can do something embarrassing, like cry in front of his 12-year-old baby brother.

"Dean," Sam says, his voice growing worried. Xanthe perches on Dean's thigh next to Trixin, who is still a frightened little rat, and Dean is vaguely aware of Sam getting out of bed and coming around to kneel in front of him. "Hey. Dean, hey, it's okay."

Dean takes a deep breath and lets Sam guide his hands down to his lap. He's not crying, thank god, but it's a near thing. Sam reaches up, stroking his hand gently on Dean's cheek. It's not his job to comfort Dean, goddammit, but he's good at it.

"Did the thing get away?" Sam asks softly. "It was your first hunt, Dean, everybody makes—"

Dean shakes his head. "We were too late. We were too late, Sam. I killed it, but not until it had—I saw them. The mom and dad and their kid. All of them were so…"

Dean wipes his hand over his mouth and swallows the vivid descriptions. Sam doesn't need to know what it looked like. Not yet. Not for years.

"That wasn't your fault, Dean," Sam tells him, because he didn't see it and he doesn't know. "You did the best you could."

Dean looks up, finding his brother's eyes, and he doesn't know why the thought even comes into his head, but he suddenly feels like it's very important. "The Dust," Dean says. "Do you still see it?"

Sam's face clouds over, and Dean knows it's shame making him avert his eyes. "Yes, Dean. I still see it."

"Everywhere?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not everywhere. A lot of places."

Dean feels his voice getting shaky. "It's good, Sammy? It means something good?"

"Yeah." Sam nods. "It's definitely good."

Dean waits until Sam is looking up at him again before he says, "Does it still fall on me, Sam? Even now?"

Sam licks his lips and nods. "Always," he says quietly. "Always."

Dean gives Sam a feeble smile and stands up, heading to the bathroom to wash himself. He gets into bed that night and lies awake trying to think of something strong, something strong enough to always save his brother, even when he can't. Trixin shifts into a large wolf, her coat grey and white, and curls up under the covers with him. Dean buries his face in her shaggy neck and knows as soon as she settles that she will never take another form again.

This has never been something Dean questions. It's never been anything but logical as far as he's concerned. Sam loves to pet Trixin as much as Trixin loves Sam's hands on her. Dean loves it, too. And Xanthe—Xanthe is a fixture on Dean's shoulder as often as he's on Sam's. It's a better perch for him, Dean always jokes, what with Sam being so damn scrawny.

Dad gave up on policing it when they were still toddlers. 16 years later, there's no hope of breaking the habit. People remark on it every now and then or confuse whose daemon is whose, just like they sometimes call Xanthe a beautiful girl and then shut down when they realize Sam's daemon is beautiful, yes, but a girl, not so much.

John used to make excuses when strangers pointed it out or expressed shock, trying very hard to sound like he didn't think it was strange. Now he just tells people to mind their own damned business. They're close, they've always been close, and that's why they can touch each other's daemons. It made perfect sense to Dean.

Now, though, now it feels like a pretty big problem. Lately, Sam's fingers curled in Trixin's fur has made Dean's body feel flushed and needy and vulnerable, eager for more. Just like looking at Sam has Dean wishing he could see more, and it's that impulse to look at Sam, to look in ways he so obviously should not be looking, that finally forces the connection in Dean's mind. This is why people always looked at them aghast. This is what Dad has been trying to explain away. They aren’t supposed to be touching each other's daemons. They never should have felt okay doing it. It certainly isn't supposed to feel this good.

Something horrible has gone wrong between Sam and Dean, and it happened so long ago Dean can't even trace his mistake. He can't stop it. He won't know how to live without Sam's skin on his soul.

Trixin, little traitor that she is, rolls onto her back and lets her feet kick in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth. Encouraging Sam because it feels good, and that's all she cares about. She doesn't care that she's lulling Sam into something terrible. Maybe daemons can't feel guilt, but Dean's got plenty for both of them. She wags her tail like an excited puppy, not looking all that different from Sam on the rare occasion Dean catches him in a good mood and tackles him down.

"Who's a good girl?" Sam asks, scratching her belly.

Trixin curls onto her side to glare at him. "I'm not a pet," she informs Sam.

Sam laughs, hands mussing the hair between her ears. Xanthe perches on her back and tries to peck Sam's hand away from her. Daemon solidarity or something. Dean just sits on his bed pretending to watch TV. Pretending every touch of Sam's hand on his wolf doesn't make his body ache.

"You're so full of shit," Sam says.

Dean looks over to find his brother staring at him, his hand still tangled in Trixin's fur. His eyebrows draw together. "Why am I full of shit?

"You're pretending to be really engrossed by the Discovery Channel, and it's not Shark Week, and they aren't showing animals doing it."

Dean sticks his tongue out, smirking a little. "It's less boring than you are."

"You don't really think so," Sam says, and Dean thinks he hears something very, very dangerous in his brother's tone.

He responds with silence, plays with the buttons on the remote and looks away from Sam. So Sam stands and walks to Dean's bed and both of their daemons follow him over.

He takes the remote, his fingers resting over Dean's, and forces Dean to look at him. "Dean, turn off the TV."

Dean doesn’t get the chance to disobey; Sam has already taken the remote from him and powered it off on his own. "Why?" he asks, though he doesn't think he'll like the answer very much.

Sam sits just next to Dean on his bed and reaches out, hand cupping one side of Dean's face gingerly. "I've got a better show for you to watch."

Dean laughs. "What's that?"

Sam's eyes flick up for just a second, and Dean can see him grow more confident. "The Dust. There's so much of it lately. So much of it, and it all goes to you."

Dean can't help sitting up, can't hide that Sam has his attention now.

"It wants me to do something," Sam says, distracted now as he watches it. "Something I want to do very much." He smiles, and Dean would swear there's a light shining on him. He's radiant and much too young to know what he's doing. Sam looks so innocent, but Dean knows whatever this Dust is telling him to do, it won't be innocent by a mile. "Dean, it's so gorgeous. I wish you could see it."

"Well I can't see it," he replies, trying to push Sam's hand away. But it's a trap of some kind, because as soon as Sam's fingers are wrapped in his own, Dean can't remember why he wanted them gone.

"I'm gonna make you see it." Sam's words are in that same faraway, almost absent tone as before, but he isn't watching the Dust sinking onto Dean anymore. He's looking down at Dean's mouth and then he's kissing Dean.

Then he's kissing Dean and kissing Dean, and Xanthe is cooing and Trixin brings the raven down with one huge paw and pulls him close to her chest. Sam is rough despite his age and the slightness of his frame and the gentleness in his eyes when he pulls away for air. It surprises Dean, but it excites him, too, and he gets hard and needy feeling all that raw energy.

Dean opens his mouth, lets Sam fill him with Dust or love or whatever it is he's offering. He should be disgusted at himself for letting this happen. He should be stopping it. But he doesn't care what he _should be_ doing anymore. Sam is making it impossible, and there's no point in caring now anyway. Dean will never be strong enough to stop it.

So he wraps his arms around Sam's back, pulling his brother's bony frame down on top of him. Sam lands half on Dean and half on their daemons, and all four of them laugh for a moment before Sam gets back to sucking the laughter straight from Dean's lips.

Dean gets the fright of his life the summer Sam turns 17.

They're trying to drive the entire Mojave Desert, from Flagstaff to California, in seven hours. It's Sam's stupid idea, but he makes the challenge sound fun when he's selling it to Dean. He says he wants to go because they've never seen it before, and Dean agrees because he wants to make Sam happy and he never, not in a million years, suspects what Sam is up to. That he—or anyone—would ever voluntarily do what Sam is doing doesn't occur to Dean until long after his brother has tricked him into complicity.

Dean notices that Sam is out of it early on. Of course he does, Sam is his brother and Dean notices everything about him, or at least that's what he thinks. Sam's face gets pale and drawn and he starts looking sad right away. Dean asks over and over if Sam wants him to go somewhere else, if there's something he can do, but Sam just pretends he's fine.

He doesn't even want to sit shotgun. He claims he's just tired and curls up in the backseat of the Impala to nap. His sleep is fitful, but it's not until Death Valley that he starts crying, hands trying to tear at his hair. He begs Dean to turn around, turn around please, and then when Dean says he will, he changes his mind and swears he'll never forgive Dean if he does it.

That's when it hits Dean. He stops the car right in the middle of the road and glances back again just to confirm that what he saw in the rearview mirror was not some horrible illusion. 

"Sam, where's Xanthe?"

Sam looks up at Dean, his cheeks wet all over from crying. "I love you," he says instead of answering the question.

Dean gets out of the car and rushes to its side, opening the door and sliding in next to Sam. Sam grabs onto Dean’s collar with both hands and tries to pull him in for a kiss. His arms are weak, pathetic even, and he keeps touching Dean's face like he's hoping he'll feel Xanthe on Dean's skin somehow.

"Your daemon," he repeats. "Sam, where is your daemon?"

"Please don't ever think I don't love you," he continues, rambling now. "Don't ever think that—no matter what I do."

"Where is he?" Dean asks again, his voice rising. He grabs Sam's shoulder and shakes him. "Tell me right now where he is."

Dean's skin is crawling touching Sam, looking at him and not seeing what should be there. He wants to throw up, and it's not even his goddamn daemon missing. He can't imagine what Sam feels like.

"I sent him away," Sam admits, turning his face and starting to cry. "He's waiting for me in Arizona."

"Sam, we left Arizona hours ago. There's miles and miles of—"

"Dead, dead land between us," Sam says, his voice thin and grainy. "I can feel how dead it is. I think I'm going to die, too."

"Why, Sam?" Dean wipes sweat off his brother's forehead. It's summer in the middle of Death Valley, the heat is oppressive already, but Sam looks like he's lost more water than he has left in him. "Christ, why would you ever do something like this?"

"Because I love you," he says again. Dean would punch him for pinning this on him if he could bring himself to make Sam suffer more than he already is.

"That doesn't answer it."

"I'll explain when we get to California. When I get him back, I'll explain. If I get him back. I'm too tired now, Dean, please. It hurts so much. I just want to get there."

"We're not going to California," Dean replies. "We're going back to Arizona and getting Xanthe."

Sam sits up, somehow finding enough energy to get a firm grasp on Dean. "Don't. Don't. We have to make it across. It'll all be for nothing if we turn back now."

Dean doesn't ask any more questions, because the longer he sits here, the longer Sam is stuck like this. He gets back in the driver's seat and makes the poor Impala drive as fast as she can over miles and miles of desert. The gas goes quickly at the speed he's driving, and the rest of it evaporates. Dean has to stop to fill her up every time they pass a gas station, because they're few and far between and there literally could not be a worse time or place to get stranded. He feels like he's slicing away another layer of his brother every time he pulls over and parks the car. Sam looks worse at each stop, looks dead almost. Dean knows people have died from this. But not Sam, Sam can't die.

Trixin jumps into the backseat, curling up by Sam's side, licking away his tears since Sam doesn't have a daemon of his own to comfort him. Dean winces. Just that space between the front and back seats makes him yearn for his daemon, and it's not even much more than a foot.

By the time they get to California, Sam is wailing.

They reach the end of the desert—the goddamn ocean practically—and only stay long enough to refuel. Then they're back on the road again. Sam tells Dean that Xanthe is flying toward them and that he'll know when his daemon is close. He passes out after that. Dean drives for hours and hours, not entirely sure if the brother in the back of his car is a corpse or if the daemon they're searching for still exists at all.

It's two and a half days in a motel once they finally get Xanthe back and neither Sam nor his daemon are in suitable condition to explain. Sam holds Xanthe, his fingers digging into the feathers on his side so hard it must hurt, but the bird is sighing in relief through its labored breathing.

Finally he's okay, and Dean can push the sweat-drenched hair away from Sam's forehead and demand answers.

"Witches do it," Sam tells him quietly. "Their daemons are always birds, remember? I wanted to know why that was, so I looked it up. It's a rite of passage for them. They all have to do it."

"Yeah, but you're not a witch just because your daemon is a fucking bird, Sam."

Witches are monsters. They hunt witches. Sam is not like them, though Dean can understand why they're so cruel now, why so many of them get trigger-happy. Anyone would go mad enduring what Sam just willingly put himself through.

"You could have killed yourself."

"It was a risk," Sam admits, stroking the black feathers on Xanthe's back. "I was pretty sure it would work though, and that I'd survive. And look," he holds his raven up, "I was right."

Dean stands, his hand curling into a fist. He punches the wall because his brother is not fair game right now, but as soon as he's back on his feet, Dean is going to beat him to the fucking ground. "You were _pretty sure_?"

"I had to try," Sam whispers. "I had to. Because I—"

Trixin interrupts Sam with a growl, and Dean jumps in, "You didn't do this for me," he says. "Don't you dare try blaming me again."

Sam shakes his head. "No, I did it for me. Because I can't stand the thought of never seeing you."

"That doesn't make any sense," Trixin says sharply.

"The witches," Sam says, looking at her defiantly. "They can travel anywhere, as far as they want from their daemon and not feel pain. After they do this. You have to cross over something dead. Something that hates life."

"Like a desert," Dean murmurs.

"Like Death Valley," Sam confirms. "You have to do it without your daemon. And after that, you can always separate. According to my research, it gets annoying after a while and then painful, but it's perfectly endurable for weeks."

"But you didn't have to do it. No one made you."

"I made me." Sam licks his lips. "If I ever…if for some reason we ever get separated, Xanthe can come visit you and it'll almost be like I'm with you, too."

"Why would we ever be separated?" Dean asks. Then he turns to the raven. "How did you let him talk you into this?"

"It was Xantherios's idea," Sam says, quiet but firm. He's got conviction. How someone as smart as Sam can be so convinced such a stupid idea was worth it is beyond Dean, but the little bastard isn't sorry. Not even for the worry he caused Dean. Not even for making Dean torture him without telling him first.

Dean looks at the raven, bewildered. How could he have done that to Sam or to himself? How could he? "Why would we be separated, Sam?" Dean repeats, his voice rising and growing colder.

Sam smiles sadly and reaches out. "C'mere, Dean."

He doesn't get another word out of his brother that night, but it doesn't matter. Dean gets his answer a year later when Sam tells him he got into Stanford. He should have known, even before the Death Valley incident, Dean should have known. After the first time Sam mentioned Dust or the day Sam woke up half an inch taller than Dean or all the millions of times Sam was too smart for his own good. This is just one more thing about Sam that was too big for Dean to be a part of. Sam was always bound to leave him.

Six months later, Sam gives him a brief kiss goodbye, climbs onto a bus heading west, and leaves Dean behind in his Dust.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean has become accustomed to the labored sound of Xanthe's breathing by now. The raven is lying on his pillow, and Dean runs his fingers tenderly over the ends of his feathers. They haven't started falling out yet, but Dean's just waiting for the day his good morning touch causes them to. They've already faded from the rich, shiny black they used to be to an almost transparent, ancient looking shade of ashy gray. 

"Hey," he whispers. "How you feeling?"

Xanthe tries to lift his head, tries to act like he has any energy to greet Dean with, but he gives up quickly, letting his head drop back to his chest. "Sam," he whispers, aching exactly like Dean is. Expressing the same grief. Dean may look okay, but he feels as worn as his brother's daemon.

There are days Dean wishes this were over. He hates himself for thinking it; he's loved Xanthe better than he's loved himself. Better than he's loved Trixin. But watching him suffer like this, thinking of Sam down below with nothing—nothing to comfort him, not even his own daemon—makes Dean wish he was strong enough to end it. If Xanthe died, maybe he and Sam would be together again. As much as Dean clings to feeling his brother's soul sharing his pillow every morning, trying to fill the hole Sam left when he tumbled into Hell, keeping Xanthe is a selfishness so complete even Dean has to wonder at himself.

The raven should be dead. Dean has talked to every witch he could find, half hopeful and half horrified. They all give him the same answer. No daemon, no matter how complete the separation, has ever lived without their human for more than eight months. Sam has been in Hell for almost a year, and yet the weak beating of Xanthe's heart still puts Dean to sleep every night. Xanthe should be dead, and Dean knows he's the only thing keeping the poor bird alive. If he had any mercy at all, he would slit the daemon's throat.

"How," Dean's voice falters, "how is he?"

"Misses you," Xanthe tells him. Like Xanthe tells him every day, and yet Dean never stops needing to hear it.

Back when Sam was in college—it feels like a million years ago now—Dean had been so annoyed by that response. Sam would send his daemon to Dean every few months, and Dean would literally live for the days Xanthe stayed with him. It was a pathetic, embittered existence, but then it was Dean and it was almost Sam.

"He misses you," the raven would say, though Dean would never ask. "Don't think for a moment he doesn't."

Dean would pretend not to care. He would act as cold to the raven as he could manage, but Xanthe could see right through him. If Sam missed him, he never would have left. He never would have planned this or suffered the agony of splitting himself in half just to send Dean these bullshit morsels of affection from time to time. It had been so impossible back then to believe Sam cared or was suffering even a fraction of what Dean was feeling every day his brother was away being too damn good for him.

It's amazing, the little things that seemed unendurable just six years ago. 

Now, Dean knows it's true. Knows Xanthe wouldn't waste the few precious words he can force out of himself to lie to Dean. It doesn't make him feel any better knowing that Sam is yearning for him down in Hell.

Dean leans up, presses a kiss to the disheveled feathers, and Xanthe lets out a little cry of pain. Xanthe has explained that he does that because he can feel how Dean's affection hurts Sam, but the daemon swears it's worse for his brother when he doesn't, so Dean has learned to ignore the sound.

There's an outbreak of excited footsteps in the hallway, and Dean hears something scuttle into the room under the door. It swings open a few seconds later, Lisa following Rotombil in and jolting Dean and Xanthe out of their moment.

She's half-laughing and half-annoyed, and she looks Dean in the eye as he sits up in bed. "He did it again," she says, holding her hand over her heart. She bends to the floor to pick the mouse up, and Dean can see how hard her daemon is shaking.

A few seconds later, the sound of loud laughter fills the room. Dean rubs his hands over his eyes and shakes his head. "Ben," he says in his best scolding voice. "How many times have we told you not to shift that damn daemon to scare your mother?"

"Aw, come on," Ben says, grinning. "You should have seen how high that little mouse jumped."

"Monkey this time," Lisa explains, trying not to smile as she looks at Dean. "One day we’ll both have a heart attack, and then he'll feel sorry."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean answers.

Lisa cocks her head to one side and some of the amusement dies out of her expression. "Ben, honey, why don't you go get ready for practice, huh?"

Ben pouts. "But I wanted to—"

"Go on," Dean says. "I'll drive you."

"Can we go in the Impala?" he asks.

"You bet," Dean says, forcing a smile.

"Badass!" Ben pumps a fist into the air and gathers the monkey he'd used to scare his mother up in his arms. She shifts into the adolescent gray wolf Ben favors—the one that looks alarmingly like Trixin and makes Dean feel even less like he should be here than usual, and Ben starts to head toward his bedroom. 

"Watch your mouth," Lisa calls after him before shutting the door. She sits at the end of the bed and gives Dean a sad look. "Hey."

"Hey," he echoes.

Trixin is already lying at the foot of the bed, so she drags herself a few inches over and deposits her head in Lisa's lap, making the demand for attention obvious. Lisa rolls her eyes and scratches behind the daemon's ears, and Dean feels the tiniest bit better.

"How's he today?" she asks.

She doesn't look at or speak to Xanthe, and Dean knows why. The whole situation makes her uncomfortable, like it would make anyone, though for some reason she allows it in her house. Still, when she isn't looking at him with pity, it's with fear or disgust—the kind of disgust anyone would feel seeing a daemon with no body unless that person was Dean and the missing body just so happened to be his brother's.

"Worse," he says. The word seems to slice its way out of Dean's throat. Xanthe has been slipping away faster lately. Not that it's surprising considering how long his human has been in Hell. But knowing it was coming hasn't made it any easier.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, her hand tightening in Trixin's fur. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

Dean shakes his head. He knows she's trying to help, but he doesn't really want to talk about Xanthe or Sam with her. He loves her, and he definitely appreciates everything she's done for him, especially considering all the good reasons she had to slam the door in his face when he showed up. But the touch of her hand in his daemon's fur, warm and concerned as it is, will never feel the way Sam's did. Deep down, it even feels a little dirty.

"Sorry, I slept late. I've got Sunday breakfast tomorrow, promise."

She smiles. "Sounds good."

There's a knock at the door then, and Ben doesn't wait for an answer before entering. "I'm ready," he says.

Lisa snatches her hand away from Trixin, ducking her head awkwardly and smiling shyly at Dean the way she always does when her son catches them touching each other's daemons. It's a good smile. A gorgeous smile. Dean can't appreciate it properly, but he knows that's his failing, not hers.

He says something to Ben about not barging in, like he has a thousand times, and Ben doesn't seem to hear it yet again. Dean gets up and throws on the first presentable outfit he finds strewn over his and Lisa's room. Trixin hops down from the bed and circles around a few times, finding her feet after so many hours in bed. Dean tucks Xanthe into his jacket and both Ben and Lisa avert their eyes, doing their best not to make faces.

The drive to Ben's soccer meet isn't long. Dean hangs around for a while, but he's got an antsy feeling he can't shake today, and after a quarter of an hour he gets back into the Impala. Xanthe only has a few days left in him, maybe a week if Dean's lucky, and he doesn’t think anyone could blame him for wanting time alone. Not if they understood, which of course no one does.

Lisa had tried. When Dean first showed up, she'd taken Xanthe for a regular raven, some poor injured thing Dean had found and taken pity on while making his way to her. It wasn't until she reached out to try and touch Sam's daemon, when Trixin growled and bared her teeth in an obvious threat, that horrified understanding had dawned in Lisa's eyes.

A daemon with no body is unheard of, and Dean knows the horror of seeing the opposite too well to blame her for hating his brother's daemon. The first time he'd seen Castiel standing in front of him, perfectly functional with no daemon at his side, Dean felt the kind of gut-wrenching terror he hadn't known since his first few hunts. He's seen dozens of angels since then and it still gives him the creeps every time.

Dean pulls his jacket closed tighter, trying to feel the feeble movements from the raven tucked inside of it. He can't help thinking of Sam—two seconds after saying yes to Lucifer, when the angel had taken his brother's body and Xanthe had flickered out of existence, pushed inside of Sam where there was no room for him, where a soul should never, ever be. He can't help thinking of Sam—two seconds before Lucifer was going to break Dean's neck, when his brother had reclaimed his body and the raven had reappeared at his brother's side. Dean had felt so reassured for half a second. Until Sam had taken Xanthe between his big hands and held him tight, telling him to stay behind with Dean. Then he'd jumped into the cage too quickly for Xanthe to question his order and disappeared from Dean's life forever.

Dean parks the Impala off the side of the first quiet road he finds and reaches into his jacket, taking the raven out. He rests Xanthe softly on Trixin's back, the fur creating a bed for him.

"What’s wrong?" Trixin asks, sniffing the raven as well as she can at the awkward angle.

It seems like a pretty stupid question. Sam is missing is what's wrong, but then Xanthe shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know what's happening. I feel sick."

Dean frowns. Souls don't get sick. He's only ever heard of one other instance. "Like when Sam was drinking demon blood?" he asks.

The raven shakes his head. "No," he says. Dean is relieved, thinking maybe that strikes one possibility off the list of torture methods being used on Sam in Hell, but then the daemon says, "Worse than the demon blood."

"It's not just Sam?" Dean asks. "It's been so long, maybe it's just the absence getting worse."

"No," Trixin says. "He smells different."

Always something new. Dean wonders if this is going to be the last straw, the thing that makes Dean do what everyone thinks he should but only Bobby has been bold enough to actually suggest out loud. _Put the poor thing out of his misery, Dean, or at least let me do it._

He starts the car. Ben's still got a good two hours of practice and Dean decides to go home, shower and try to stop thinking so much. The house should be empty; Lisa will be out teaching a class, and Dean is going to need to pull himself together before he can interact with people again.

The door is open when Dean gets back. Not all the way, just a bit, like someone went in and didn't care enough to make sure it was shut. That's not like Lisa—Dean has told her what's out there and how important it is to make sure nothing gets past their wards. She wouldn't have gone to class and left the house empty and unguarded with the door unlocked.

Dean takes a moment to thank his lucky stars that he's got a trunk full of weapons and goes back to the Impala to arm himself. He conceals a few guns and knives in his clothing before he tries to go in.

"Hello?" he says, pushing the door open and taking a quick look around. Nothing has been ransacked, so it's not a robbery. That would probably be a relief to some people, but Dean knows that usually just means something worse.

He takes the gun tucked into the back of his jeans out and moves into the house slowly.

"I know you're here, and if you don't show yourself right now I'll shoot you the moment I find your ass, you got that?"

He hears the door swing shut behind him and turns quickly, gun at the ready. The face he sees watching him, mouth quirked in a bemused expression, is one he never thought he'd see again.

"Sammy?"

Sam smiles and shrugs. "You gonna shoot me?" he asks, pointing to the gun in Dean's hand.

"You a demon or a shifter?" Dean asks, not lowering his weapon. "And did you really think I'd be stupid enough to fall for this?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You've got a flask of holy water in your left pocket and a silver knife hidden in your boot. Why don't you check for yourself?"

Dean grabs the flask and unscrews the top, sprinkling Sam. Nothing happens, so he takes out the knife. Sam holds out an arm for Dean to cut into. Nothing. No reaction.

Dean looks up from the cut, his mouth hanging open, his eyes widening. Sam is watching him with that same amused look on his face, and Dean nearly trips over his own daemon as she circles Sam's feet when he reaches up to pull his brother into an embrace.

Sam pats him on the back, and Dean lets go, taking a step back. He reaches into his jacket for Xanthe, so excited to reunite his brother with his daemon, to finally see the raven fly and shine like he hasn't in so long.

He holds Xanthe out as an offering but Sam doesn't extend his hand to take him, and when Dean tries pushing him further, Xanthe _recoils_.

"Xanthe," Dean says. "Xanthe, what's wrong? It's Sam. It's our Sammy."

The bird shakes his head with more energy than Dean has seen from him in months. "It's not him," he calls out hysterically. "It's not him, that's not him. That's not my Sam."

Dean's eyebrows draw together and he pulls his hand back, glaring up at Sam with renewed suspicion. Trixin starts growling, and Sam takes a few steps back until he's pressed against the wall. "Whoa," he says, holding his hands up. "Calm down there everyone."

"You son of a bitch," Dean says, pulling another knife and trying to stab whatever this thing is. "I'll fucking kill you for—"

Sam catches the hand with the knife easily, twisting Dean's wrist until the blade falls to the floor. Dean is at a disadvantage—he's got his brother's daemon snuggled into the palm of his other hand, and he can't drop the bird. Xanthe is barely hanging on as is.

To his surprise, the thing doesn't keep fighting once he's got Dean in a hold he can't break. "Dean," it says into his ear. "Dean, it's me. It's Sam. I'm not going to hurt you, but you really need to not try and stab me, okay?"

Dean shakes his head. "You can't be him," he says, still trying to wiggle free. "Xanthe would know. You aren't him."

"Here, give me this stupid thing." Sam sighs and snatches the raven out of Dean's hand, pushing him away.

Dean stumbles, horrified to have been caught off guard and to have given Xanthe up so easily. He turns back on his brother—or whatever this thing is—and sees the raven flapping his wings. Fighting desperately to escape. Fighting with more energy than he's been able to muster in months.

The look on Sam's face as Dean gets it is downright smug. Xanthe wouldn't be getting stronger if it wasn't Sam. Nothing else in the world could make the raven fight like that again, or Dean would have found it by now.

"Sam?" Dean asks.

Sam nods, looking down at the bird clutched between his fists as Xanthe begins to give up and relax back into submission. "Would you please tell him that?" Sam says, inclining his head downward.

Dean steps forward and reaches out, brushing a couple of fingers under Xanthe's beak, inclining the bird's head up enough to catch his black eyes. "Xanthe, it's Sam. It’s our Sammy."

Xanthe shakes his head weakly, just once. "Please, no. Don't let it be."

It makes Dean damn near shudder to hear that. Sam is Xanthe's human. Dean knows how much the daemon has missed him, how much they both have. How could he not be happy to finally, impossibly, be clutched in Sam's hands again?

Sam gives Xanthe back to Dean with a bored look on his face. "Here, you hold him. I came all this way because people kept bugging me about where my daemon was and now he doesn't even want to be around me." Sam snickers. "Figures."

He doesn't sound particularly offended, just vaguely annoyed. Dean thinks he would probably die if Trixin didn't want to be near him. He steps forward again and puts a hand on Sam's cheek, brushing a thumb across the skin there. It certainly looks like Sam, every bit as beautiful as the body Dean never got to bury. Just like Dean remembered.

When he leans forward and kisses Sam, the response is easy and unrestrained. It doesn't taste like Sam. He kisses back hungrily, mouth moving over Dean's with enough pressure to put the kiss just on the right side of painful. Sam has kissed Dean like this, but Dean would have expected something different now, after months of painful separation. The kiss is all lust and it's nice to be wanted, but it's not everything Dean missed about his brother.

Dean pushes that thought aside. Later that night, when Dean has said his goodbyes to Lisa and Ben and taken his brother back out on the road, when Sam is thrusting away inside of him, Dean stares up at the ceiling and thinks that Sam fucks exactly like he kisses now. It's good enough but mechanical, empty. He doesn't lower his face to kiss Dean or go slowly as he leans down and whispers things Dean used to laugh at him for in his ear. It's like Dean isn't even there, or like he's just anyone, and as stupid as it feels to be hurt by that, it hurts.

There's no sweet anything at all, but Sam still knows how to angle his hips so he makes Dean's body tighten up with every thrust. Dean turns his face away so he doesn’t have to see the blank look on his brother's face and watches Trixin and Xanthe as the raven snuggles into his wolf's fur and coos quietly.

Every second Sam is inside of Dean, Xanthe's coat gets just the slightest bit darker. It's not quite back to its usual glossy black when Sam comes inside of him and pulls out, but it's damn close. He focuses on that, the slight ache of want between his legs easy enough to ignore. Dean is hardly even aware of his brother's fist when it slips between his legs and works away at him, causing Dean to come.

Sam sits up and gets out of bed, walking toward the bathroom. Dean watches him leave the room, eyes lingering on his brother's naked frame as it disappears into the light of the bathroom and the door swings shut behind him.

Xanthe is looking up at him, expression knowing. "It's not him," he's still insisting, even though he's bright and healthy. "You know it's not him."

Dean shakes his head. The two of them should be sent to Hell for this. All they've wanted since Sam went into that hole was to see him again, now here he is and they're not happy. They've got no right to doubt Sam and no reason to want to look for the fine print. Dean just can't—can't handle the implications if this isn't Sam. He can't lose his brother again, and neither can Xanthe. 

"He has to be," Dean says. "Now cut that out."

"How could it?" Trixin argues. Siding with Xanthe. Always, the two of them against him. Sam used to balance that out. "They didn't just let him walk out, Dean."

"He says he doesn't know how he got out. He doesn't know." Dean wouldn't be so snippy if he believed any of this. The daemons probably damn well know that. "We'll figure it out."

"Dean, I can feel it. He's making me sick." Xanthe and Trixin exchange a look, and then Xanthe eyes Dean. "I know you can feel it, too."

The door to the bathroom opens then, the sound of flushing following Sam in. All three of them quit bickering and look up at the man walking into the room.

"You're probably tired," Sam says. "Long day and all. I'm gonna head out, grab a drink or something. You get some sleep."

Dean's stomach tightens just the smallest bit. "Aren't you tired, too? Been a bigger day for you, I bet. Climbing out of Hell and all."

Sam shrugs. "I've been out of Hell," he says, bored with the conversation apparently. "Anyway, I don't get tired these days."

Sam makes his way across the room, pulling clothing on, and Dean watches him, too confused to do anything else. When Sam straightens up from tying his shoes and begins to make his way to the door, Dean speaks up, "Forgetting something?"

Sam turns, confused for half a second before he sees Trixin's bared teeth and his own daemon watching him warily. He laughs uncomfortably. "We were apart six months, I think he can stand a few hours here with you."

Dean stares, unable to process that, and then the stupidest possible thing tumbles out of his mouth. "Dust," he says, causing Sam to pause as his fingers wrap around the doorknob. "Where is the Dust right now?"

Sam turns to look at him, tilting his head to one side. "Huh," he says, sounding surprised. "I'd totally forgotten about that." He shrugs and then continues to open the door. "Guess it finally went away."

The door closes behind him, and Dean turns to look at the daemons beside him. He feels sick, down to his soul if the look on Trixin's face is anything to judge by. "It's not him," he says, fidgeting from the sticky feeling of the come drying between his legs.

Xanthe has the good grace to look sorry and not say 'I told you so.'

_______________________________________________________________

Castiel comes immediately upon being summoned. He blinks a few times when he arrives, looking around the room to get his bearings. He seems more disoriented than Dean is used to, but he smiles weakly when he sees who called him down from Heaven.

"Hello, Dean," he says in his rumbling monotone voice, the one he gets when he's been around no one but angels for too long. His attention turns across the room and he dips his head, apparently completely unruffled by the sight of Sam, tied to a chair with his nose bloodied from the fight. "Sam."

Sam acknowledges the greeting with a nod of his head, but Dean doesn't have time for the formalities.

"What is it?"

Castiel looks back to him, his expression more annoyed than genial now. "You called me down. From a very important battle, I might add. I'd like to think you at least know why you did that."

Dean points to the thing wearing his brother's skin to clarify. "What is it?"

Castiel stares unblinking. "It looks remarkably like your brother Sam," he says blankly. "You might remember him, he's the one who stole your Lego set when you were seven. Still a sore point, I believe."

"So you're funny now?" Dean asks as Sam snickers in the background.

"I don't know," Castiel says. "I don't have time to be funny, Dean. I am fighting a war."

"You mentioned," Dean replies. He wipes his hand over his mouth and takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. Pissing Castiel off is not going to help his cause right about now. "Look, there's something wrong with him. You're an angel, I mean, you know by looking at things what they are, right?"

Castiel nods.

Dean watches the angel closely. "You telling me that thing's human?"

"As far as I can tell on sight, yes."

Dean feels a horrified wave of shame about to drown him, because that really is his brother, and he didn't know him, and he hit him to tie him up when he should have been worshiping the ground he walked on.

"Isn't there some way you can be sure?" Trixin asks, not ready to accept being wrong about this.

Castiel gives the same surprised jump he does every time one of the daemons talks to him and reminds him of their existence. Then his eyes cloud over for just a second, sad, and Dean knows he's remembering those fleeting few days that he'd had his own. Castiel's daemon had shifted like a child's, too young and new to humanity for a mature, settled form, but Dean will never forget the warm, fascinated look on his friend's face as he'd sat in the back of the Impala, petting the wobbly legged calf his daemon had favored. He hadn't even had a soul long enough to learn its name, but he had loved the damn thing, Dean knew that much. It makes Dean even more uncomfortable to see him standing there without one at his side than it did before.

Castiel makes sure to respond directly to Dean, even though it was the wolf who had asked the question, and Dean can't really blame him. "There is a way. It may hurt your brother."

"How much?" Dean asks. "Enough to kill—?"

"No, no. It will burn very intensely for only a few seconds, and then the pain will subside, and I will be able to tell you for sure if it is your brother."

"Is all this really necessary?" Sam asks, apparently interested in the conversation now.

"Shut up," Dean snaps at him. He turns back to Castiel. "Do it."

The angel nods, making his way across the room quickly. "Remove your belt," he tells Sam.

Sam smirks up at Castiel. "Now really the time for that kind of thing?"

Castiel doesn't even acknowledge the joke, if he got it at all. In a split second Sam's belt is in his hands, and he bends it over before pushing it into Sam's mouth. "Bite down on that when the pain is too much," he instructs. "I don't have the time or energy to help you grow a new tongue."

Dean flinches a little at that, but before he has time to change his mind, Castiel's hand is slipping right into Sam's chest. Xanthe and Trixin both turn their heads away from the sight, clever creatures that they are, but Dean stares as if transfixed at the bright orange and red light that begins to escape as Castiel feels around inside his brother. He can hear Sam's cries through the muffle of the leather in his mouth, but it's not more than half a minute before Castiel pulls away and Sam's spasms calm.

"Well," Dean asks impatiently. "What, what is it?"

Castiel turns to look at him, a troubled expression on his face. Dean knows just from looking at it that he was right, though whether he's relieved or not that he was right is a mystery even to Dean. "His Dust is missing."

And great, there it is again. Dust. The damn stuff still means next to nothing to Dean. He tried figuring it out while Sam was at school, had devoted almost all of his free time that first year Sam was gone to researching it when he wasn't on a case. Dust is not something Sam made up, Dean knows that much. He found studies about it and some contested scientific evidence that the shit exists, but none of it explained what it is or what it does. Mostly it was just a bunch of fighting over whether it's good or bad, and Dean didn't give a damn about any of that. He knew it existed, and he knew it was good. His brother had said so, had said so often. That was always enough for Dean.

But this…this is new. How can Sam be missing his Dust? Dean didn't even know people _had_ Dust, and if they do, then why the hell is it such a mystery? He shakes his head, trying to distill the questions, break them down to only the really important stuff.

"Okay, but what does that mean?"

Castiel looks speculative for a long minute, and Dean knows he's probably trying to figure how to explain this very complex concept to Dean's puny human mind. "The easiest way to put it, I think, is that although your brother's body and his soul are both here, the connection between them is severed."

"So Dust is like soul glue?" Dean asks.

The angel looks so amused by that he nearly laughs. "No, not at all." He pauses to reflect, then nods. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Really don't have time for the cryptic angel shit, buddy," Sam says. "Is this dangerous or what?"

"Dangerous? Well, yes and no."

Everyone in the room—Sam and Dean and both daemons—lets out an exasperated sigh. "Simplify!" Dean demands. "For the love of god."

"It will probably be more dangerous to reestablish the connection at this point," Castiel says. He turns to give Dean a sorry look. "Your brother, or at least most of what you consider your brother, is probably still in Hell."

"What?" Dean asks, his chest closing up and making it hard to even force that one word out.

"His body is here. His daemon was always here. But if the Dust is missing, it must not have made it out of Hell."

"You're telling me my brother is made up of a bunch of Dust or soul glue or whatever the fuck?"

"You all are," Castiel says, his voice slightly hostile. "Dust is not soul glue, that is a gross oversimplification. It establishes the connection between body and soul because it, well, I suppose it is consciousness. Knowledge and morality and all those other things humans have in just small enough doses to make them interesting."

"Small enough?" Xanthe asks.

Castiel looks at the daemon more directly than he's looked at anyone's soul since he'd lost his own. His frown etches deep lines into his face. "Angels, for example, have too much of it. We're nothing but concentrated Dust, too tightly packed to ask questions or…" He stumbles for a moment, eyes lingering on Xanthe just a few seconds longer before he averts his eyes. "Or have souls."

Dean almost wants to apologize to Castiel, but he's got bigger things on his plate. "So without it, Sam is…"

"An empty shell," Castiel says, gesturing to Sam's body and then he turns to point to Xanthe, "a dying daemon. Your brother's body will hold him over a little while longer. Maybe years. But they will not be enough to keep each other strong for very long."

"Yeah," Dean says, looking over at the raven. "He feels sick, even now that he's better because Sam is here."

Castiel nods, unsurprised. "Once the daemon has passed, even Sam's Dust will not be able to repair your brother. He will not ask questions about the things he does or feel love for you or even sleep."

"So we just have to get the Dust out of Hell then. Get it back in Sam and that's it?" Dean feels hope bubble up inside of him for the first time since his brother found him this morning. "You pulled me from Hell, right? Brought my Dust with you. Can't you do it for Sam?"

The angel turns away from Dean, and Dean thinks from the split second's view he gets of his friend's face that it almost looked guilty. "That was different, Dean. The Hellhounds had already torn your soul apart. I rebuilt it, and I was able to rebuild it in such a way that your Dust trusted me. It followed me."

Dean flinches at the reminder. It had been more painful than feeling them rip into his own body, watching those things being sicced on Trixin as she tried to fight them back, watching Xanthe fly around their heads, pecking at them and attempting to help her fight them away, and watching the hellhounds ignore him as if he was a fly. Trixin took down one or two, but she couldn’t hold off the whole pack. That moment Dean was still alive after they had finished her off—he'd thought he'd forgotten that. He knows suddenly, the blank, empty terror Castiel is describing. A body without a soul, or with no connection to one. That's the agony Xanthe is in, the agony his little brother, his real little brother, rotting down in Hell, is feeling.

"You have to get his Dust, Cas. You have to."

"Sam's soul is alive, and his Dust won't follow me."

"How can you be so sure?" Dean growls. "Why won't you even try?"

Castiel does not turn to face him. "I am sure," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Dean. If I were you, I would do your brother a mercy and slit both of their throats."

And then he's gone in a flurry of wings.

_______________________________________________________________

"His Dust will follow me, right?"

"Hello," Death says drily. "It's a pleasure to see you as well. Lovely weather we're having."

"Sam's Dust," Dean clarifies. "It would follow me out of Hell if I could get there and find a way back, wouldn't it?"

Death raises an eyebrow as he sits in the motel armchair by the window. "Your conversation skills could use a little work."

"I don't have time for—"

"I have all the time in the world," Death reminds him. "And since you called me here—against my will, I might add, I was just sitting down to lunch—and you're about to ask me for something, you could at least humor me."

Dean sighs. "Hey, Death. How's it going?"

"Well, now it just doesn't seem genuine."

"My brother," Dean says, pleading. "Please. Can I save my brother? Will I ever get him back?"

"Never," Xanthe whimpers to himself. "Never, never, never."

"Shut up, Poe," Dean snaps, but he regrets it as soon as he feels the hostility Trixin aims at him. Xanthe has every right to mourn. He thinks he'll never see Sam again, but the reminder that he's probably right is setting Dean on edge.

Death looks across the room to where Sam's body is sitting, still tied up and gagged and glaring. "That one won't do, I suppose?"

"No," Dean and Trixin both say at the same time.

The horseman looks amused more than anything. "If you could get to Hell and back out, yes. Your brother's Dust will follow no one else."

Trixin barks excitedly, then asks, "Is there a way in? Or out?"

"Yes," Death says, picking at lint on his jacket. "And yes."

"The angels. Lucifer and Michael. They won't just let me take him, will they? Are they there?"

Death laughs under his breath. "Is the answer to that going to change your mind about going after him?"

Dean shares a look with Trixin and listens to the steady sound of the daemon crying quietly across the room. He looks over his shoulder at Xantherios and at the angry, empty version of his brother in the chair. "I suppose not," he says, turning back to Death. "Just trying to be prepared before I rush in, I guess."

Death is still as, well, death. He doesn’t say anything; Dean doesn't even think he's breathing, but his eyes bore into Dean as if he's measuring every last inch of him. Finally he smiles. "Good," Death tells him. "If the angels were going to hold you back, I wouldn't suggest you even try to get Sam. Your brother is in the deepest pits of Hell. You will face something far worse than those angels before you reach him."

Dean swallows hard but nods. "I don't care. It has to be me." Trixin coughs pointedly, and Dean looks down, giving her a quick scratch behind the ears. "Us. We’re going to save him."

Death looks at Trixin, then gives a small, sad shake of his head. "Souls cannot enter the land of the dead."

Dean feels freezing cold fear shoot through him. He thinks of Sam, 17 years old and nearly dead in the backseat of the Impala. He shakes his head and takes a step back from Death at exactly the same moment Trixin starts growling and steps closer to the horseman. "You can't mean—"

"Dust can," Death continues. He holds out a hand, indicating Sam. "Bodies can. But had your brother's daemon not stayed behind with you, had he tried to enter my domain, he would surely be dead by now. It might have saved your brother a lot of suffering."

"So to go to Hell and get Sam, I have to…"

Death snaps his fingers, and suddenly a hole opens in the floor. It's cool and foggy from what Dean can see and smell; it's nothing like the Hell he remembers. "What, is it just…down there?"

Death shakes his head again, standing and walking toward the break in the floor. Once he steps into that void, the fog around his feet swirls, and Dean gets a view of what's underfoot. It's a staircase. "Come along," Death tells him. "And bring that knife of yours."

Dean looks to Trixin and shrugs, then hurries to his duffel for Ruby's knife and rushes back to the hole Death just disappeared into. She follows him, and, even though Dean's not sure if she should be doing that, he can't bring himself to stop her.

They reach the bottom where Death is standing by the bank of a river and a small boat. He's holding an oar even taller than himself.

"This isn't Hell," Dean says, looking around. "This isn't how I got there, and it didn't look anything like this."

"You did not come here naturally. You were dragged to the prisons by those hounds." Death gestures to the boat with his empty hand. "This is the way of the living, or rather, the recently deceased that have not yet entered my domain. I can ferry you across to your brother, but I cannot bring your soul."

Trixin whimpers quietly. "Don't do it," she whispers at Dean's foot. "Please don't leave me."

Somehow, Dean manages to ignore her. "Will you bring me back?"

Death shakes his head. "You must make your own way home."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" He almost laughs. "If I could get out of Hell, I would have done it the first time."

"If you would allow me to finish speaking, things would run much more smoothly." Dean shrugs and looks down sheepishly, conceding the point. "That knife I told you to bring will cut through Dust."

"That's why it can kill demons?"

"They are Dust and soul, though both so corrupted you can hardly call them that. The black smoke you see when they possess someone is really Dust. The separation between this world and yours, that is also made of Dust in a way. Once you've found your brother and convinced him to come with you, assuming you ever make it past the angels, you'll need to find a wall made of rock, not bone. Cut through that wall and you'll find yourself exactly where you started."

"My daemon," Dean says, feeling Trixin warm where she's cowering at the back of his legs. "Will I ever get her back?"

Death gives the wolf a sorry look. "She can stay here on the shore and watch you separate as long as she wants." At the word 'separate,' Trixin whimpers again, and Dean damn near echoes the sentiment. "She should return to the land of the living the same way we came as soon as you are out of her sight, however. If she is still on these shores when you touch the land of the dead—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupts. "I think we get what's going to happen."

Death shrugs. "The entrance to Hell will close then. If you return, your connection will continue just as your brother's and his daemon's did after their separation. If you don't…" Death raises his hands in a shrug. "Your brother's Dust will enter his body as soon as it sets foot back on Earth. But you must find him and you must remember your task and instructions long enough to get him there."

"They're not that complicated," Dean says stupidly. "I think I can handle it."

"So many humans have thought that," Death tells him. "So few of them manage it once they can think of nothing but the ache in their soul."

Dean flinches. Death makes a good point. But Sam—Sam won't follow anyone else. His Dust has always drifted to Dean, ever since he was a kid. Even Castiel couldn't change that. Dean has to do this.

"Are you coming or aren't you?"

Dean looks from the horseman to his daemon. Trixin is curled up on the floor, looking sad and resigned. She knows. She knows there's no real choice here. "Take care of Xanthe when you get back up there," he tells her, bending low to wrap his arms around her thick gray neck. "We'll be right back, okay Trix?"

"Quit talking," she says, trying so hard to be her snarky self, "and hurry your ass up."

Before the daemons die and Sam's body starves to death. Dean nods, giving her one last tight hug before stepping away and into Death's ferry. As soon as the boat has pulled away from the edge too far for Trixin to keep stepping closer to the water and maintain the connection, Dean feels the sharp, agonizing pain begin to well up. It's familiar enough; he's felt this tug on hunts when they've had to go in different directions to avoid something. But that never lasted more than a few seconds, and Dean thought that was as bad as it—as _anything_ —could get.

The pain keeps building. Keeps scratching around inside of him, making him want to cry just from the dirty, evil feeling of watching his soul as she turns into nothing but a black dot on the shoreline. Sam made it half a desert before he started begging to turn around; Dean gets halfway across the river before he starts considering jumping into the murky red water and trying to swim back to Trixin.

He reaches out, clenching at the bottom of Death's pants leg. "Take me back," he begs. "I can't. I can’t do this. Please, please take me back to her. I won't bother you again. Take me back."

Death shakes him off, and Dean's so weak and uncoordinated he falls back into the boat without even fighting it. "I don't think you really mean that," he says coolly. "And if you do, it's too late. You made your decision. I'm taking you to the shore. Whether you'll fail and stay in the land of the dead or rescue your brother or give up and cut your way back to Earth without him is none of my concern."

"Please," Dean whispers again. His voice is so feeble he can hardly hear himself. "Oh god, please."

 _Sam_ , Dean thinks. _Your brother's name is Sam. You love him, and he needs you._

He puts a hand over his mouth to stop up his protests. It only half works, but Dean is lucky in that Death doesn't have the same reservations he'd had. If Sam had been even half as vocal about wanting to give up on splitting as Dean is being, he never could have ignored his brother's pleas. Hell, Sam was begging him to keep going and he hardly managed to force himself into helping his brother break away from Xantherios.

Sam did this for him. Voluntarily, somehow, he remembered through all the pain that he was doing it for Dean, and he kept going. But Sam was always stronger. Was always different. Even before Yellow Eyes bled into him and made him whatever he is; Xanthe was born male. And Dust—Sam could see it, somehow, even when he was a kid. He always said there was no way Yellow Eyes gave him that. It was too good.

Dean isn't special. There's never been anything worth remembering about him except his little brother.

His little brother. He remembers his brother. He's doing this for his brother.

He closes his eyes and waits and waits and tries not to forget why he chose this as the boat slides unbearably slow across the still face of that long, dead river.

_______________________________________________________________

Dean washes up on shore after that. He doesn't know when. Days. Months. Years. Maybe Sam and the daemons have died of old age by the time his foot touches land.

"It's been an hour," Death tells him, as if he read Dean's thoughts. "Your mind understands very little in this state. Time is far too complex for it. But you won't make it much longer than a few hours, if you make it at all. I'd be quick if I were you."

"Please," Dean says as he tries to hold himself up. He stares back, not at Death but at the water boiling for what seems like a mile as it approaches the hot shores of Hell. This is the underworld Dean remembers. He can feel his flesh melting, the ash his bones have turned into under it, but he knows it won’t actually melt off him. That's for the demons to do. "Please," he says again. "How do I find Sam?"

"Follow your Dust," Death says simply, and then he pushes off the shore and begins to float back to Earth.

Dean blinks, lost by the response. He can't see Dust. He thought he'd made that perfectly clear.

He feels a tug. Not toward the water and the land across it, not the call of his soul that he's been trying so desperately to ignore. This one goes in the opposite direction. It's not Trixin, but it's so strong it might as well be a part of him. It almost promises to fill the hole that Trixin left.

There's no way it's not his brother. Sam's Dust follows Dean; he knows who his Dust will drift to, even if he can't see it. Dean wipes at his eyes, trying to squint through the sweat and tears. Salt, he thinks, somehow finding the strength to laugh. He hadn't had that last time. It might be able to help him fend off the demons at least, though what he'll do if the angels see him, he has no clue.

Dean takes shallow breaths, trying not to choke on the smells of sulfur and charcoal or his own flesh burning as his empty body rots with no soul to keep it fresh. Keep walking, even though each step weighs a thousand pounds. It's not as hard as it should be now that his Dust is leading the way. All he lets himself think is _Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam_.

Demons try to grab him. It's a good thing they start to burn as soon as they touch the salt and let go with a shout and flee. Dean has the knife that could kill them, but he never sees them coming or stops to get it out. One foot, then the other. Just remembering that is a battle. If he wavers for even a moment, all will be lost.

He's doing something important. He thinks he'll remember when he gets there. And he doesn't know where he's going, but that's okay. Dean isn't in control. He gave it up to something he can't see or smell or touch or begin to understand. He never even knew he could feel it until he had to, because now it’s the only part of him that doesn't sting. But he trusts it. It reminds him of…

Someone.

He walks on forever. He's never done anything but walk this road. There's no reason to keep going that he knows of, but he keeps going.

The walk will never end, and Dean knows this because this is all he has ever known, but then it does end. Abruptly. At the edge of a river. Dean falls to his feet before the stream and drinks. Even though he's never tasted water before, he knows that his throat is very dry.

The water makes him forget. He laughs at that. He doesn't think he remembered to begin with.

"They'll come back."

He pauses as he brings cupped hands to his lips and turns to see who is talking to him. He has never met a person before. Just demons and demons and demons and…he doesn’t remember what he was thinking just now.

"You need to leave here before they come back."

That's not a person. He looks into the river, at his own reflection. That's a person. Burnt black and brown and nearly dead, but it's a person under all the char. He doesn't know how he knows, he just knows.

"Please," it says.

Its voice is male, but that doesn't make it a person.

"Who?" he asks, though his throat is coated by so much ash that the only thing that comes out is a puff of black dust.

Dust.

He blinks at the thing in front of him, the beautiful incandescent glow. The shape is human, but not. No human could be so beautiful. The thing is glowing, bright gold, so radiant it's hurting his eyes, but he'll be happy to let them burn away if he's looking at this when it happens.

"What are you?"

The thing shakes its head. "I don't know," it says sadly. After a pause, it replies, "Brother. Call me brother."

"Brother," he whispers. "I had a brother."

What the fuck's a brother?

He stands so he can be level with it, though it's a little taller than him even when he's at his full height. He can see it better now. The shape is a man's—not just any man's, he would swear he knows the frame, but he can't because he doesn't know anyone—just like he thought, but it's not solid, it's not even one body. It's made up of countless little golden dots, all moving around inside of him, like each one is alive. Some of them float away and then settle back down on it.

Most of them head straight for Dean.

He closes his eyes as they drop onto him. They feel better than anything. Not better than anything he's ever felt, because he hasn't felt much to write home about, but he knows nothing could be better than this.

"Sam," he says.

The gold seems to grow brighter.

"No," it replies. "Dean."

Dean. That's his name. He thinks.

"What is Sam?" it asks.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know. Oh god, but it's important.

Dean reaches out, trying to place a hand on the golden outline of a cheek. There are two indents where eyes would be, if this thing had eyes. They almost seem to close as the body—all the millions of floating particles that make up that body—leans into his touch.

Sam. His brother. Xantherios. Trixin.

"Jesus," he says, yanking his hand back.

Sam reaches for him, but his fingers move right through Dean, the Dust settling on his skin and simply sinking into it. Dean grabs back for him even though there's nothing to hold on to. He needs to be in the middle of Sam's Dust. He almost forgot everything the moment he broke contact.

"Sammy," Dean says. Because he knows now. He remembers. He came to this terrible place for Sam. He left his Trixin behind. He can feel her howling for him. He can feel Sam's raven dying as he curls into her fur. "We need to get out of here."

Dean looks around. He sees no angels, but now that he's here he remembers that two brothers came down here, and now he only sees one.

"Where's Adam, Sam? Do you remember Adam?"

"Alora," Sam whispers listlessly.

Dean lets the name bring back memories. Memories are important if he's going to stay conscious long enough to save his brothers.

The crab had been more fun than Adam. She drove their half-brother crazy, always climbing on him and clamping at his ear and teasing, but the antagonism he always aimed at her was nowhere near genuine.

"What about her?" Dean prods. "Where is she? Is Adam okay?"

"Michael burnt her right out the moment he possessed him," Sam's Dust explains dejectedly. "They told me. He wasn't the proper vessel. He couldn't hold it. Alora died, so Adam asked Michael to…"

Sam can remember all that, but he can't remember Dean. Dean tries not to let that get to him. Hell is like this. There was a time he'd memorized every demon's face, but he wouldn't have known his own or his brother's. Yes, Dean remembers that now. 

Sam's Dust shivers, and his voice turns ragged and thin. "Michael took pity. No one should have to live..."

Dean knows Sam is thinking of his daemon, missing the raven just as urgently as Xanthe has missed him. He slips his hand back into the golden Dust that's making up his brother, hoping to comfort Sam, or at least find a little reassurance there for himself. It's amazing the way he can recognize Sam in this, and not just because of the understanding he feels when he touches it, the overwhelming Samness. The Dust has his brother molded like a connect-the-dots game with a million brilliant points. The broad shoulders and that stupid hair and the golden specks where his eyes should be that remind Dean of the little spots of gold that come into his brother's eyes when he's excited back on Earth. A million years ago, it feels like. As gorgeous as the Dust is, Dean just wants to see his brother again, the regular version.

"I have Xanthe, Sammy. He's okay. You can get him back." He smiles and inclines his head. "But we have to walk now, okay?"

"Where?"

Dean takes out Ruby's knife and holds it in the hand he isn't using to touch Sam. "It doesn't matter," he says, because he knows Sam won't understand if he tries to explain it. He's been down here, suffering and missing his soul, for too long. Even Dean is hardly remembering. There's no time for explanations. He can't risk it. "Just follow me. Can you do that, Sammy?"

Dean imagines he can see the dimples in the Dust's smile. "Always," it says. "Anywhere."

"Do you remember where the angels went?"

"They always go the same way," he whispers, terrified. "Please don't lead me there."

"I wouldn't," Dean promises.

"I know," Sam answers, though he still sounds worried. "But I would follow you."

"You gotta focus for me, Sam. Where do they go?"

Sam's Dust raises a hand, pointing toward a cave a few feet up the river's banks. "They love each other," he says. "They love each other so much. I've seen it. Why do they fight like that if they love each other?"

"I don't know," Dean tells him, because he could care less about the angels and their family drama right now. They took his brother. If he had the time or means, he'd happily finish them both off right now, but they're angels and Dean is just a man with no daemon and a big bundle of Dust to rescue. "Will they be back soon?"

Sam's head shakes. "They're gone a long time when they're fighting." He shifts from one foot to the other, then sounds ashamed as he adds, "It's my favorite time."

Dean laughs, reaching up to ruffle the Dust making up Sam's hair. It flies out of his way and then back into place, and Dean can feel that it's both annoyed and amused. His whole chest swells and he feels warm and full like he never thought he could after leaving Trixin behind. That's his little brother. "Come on, Sammy."

There's only one way they can go now that Sam has pointed out where the angels will be. There's a bone wall to the left, the cave to the right, and the way he entered behind. Dean starts walking forward, and Sam's Dust follows on his heels.

The journey back seems as endless as it was when he was coming to find Sam, but Dean has Sam's consciousness to remind him why he's bothering. It's easier now, nowhere near as miserable. Sam doesn’t talk much. He's still confused, Dean thinks, but he's there, and that's what matters.

Dean stops every time they see a wall and cuts in with the knife, but it takes fourteen checks before he finds one made of real stone. Not that the failures matter much when he finally does hit jackpot. It takes more effort to stick the knife in all the way to its hilt, that's how Dean knows he's cutting into the right place. His arm connects with the solid stone, a painful jolt that shocks all the way up his arm. It lets out a loud clack that echoes off walls, and Dean tries not to think about who might have heard or what would happen if they're found. He doesn't have the energy. It feels like he wastes every last bit of strength he has forcing the blade through the dense Dust that forms that prison wall between damnation and freedom, but he's rewarded with the first tiny crack of clean, white light he's seen since everything turned to hellfire.

He gets glimpses of the motel room he departed from in the gaps between the first few chunks he slices away. Sam's Dust stands quiet behind him, falling onto him. Into him. Keeping Dean going when Dean is too tired to move another finger. He keeps at it until finally the hole is big enough for Trixin to run close and let out a quiet howl, trying to stick her nose through.

A little while longer and she manages it, fighting to open her jaw and licking excitedly at Dean's face. It's easy work to cut through after that. He's got his soul back, and the faster he gets through, the sooner Sam will, too.

Finally, Xanthe flies to sit between her ears and lets out a shout of joy when he sees the Dust Dean brought with him. He flaps his wings in celebration, so fast he accidentally flies up into the air. "That's him!" he says. "I can feel him now, I can feel him."

The raven tries to swoop down to meet Sam's Dust, but Trixin catches his tail gingerly between her teeth and pulls him back.

"You can't yet," Dean says as he steadies his arms on the floor of the motel and tries to pull himself up through the opening he's made. "You can't fly down here, boy. Wait just a few more minutes, okay?"

Xanthe makes a pissy sound at him, not that Dean would expect anything less, but he also stops fighting Trixin's hold.

As soon as he's firmly back on Earth, Dean turns, holding a hand out to the Dust, as if he can help it up. A whispery laugh wraps around him as the golden light dissipates, and Sam's body begins to yell something out about not wanting it back. It doesn't matter; it's too late. Dean wouldn’t be able to stop the Dust from returning to its body now if he wanted to.

The flash is so bright Dean has to lift his arm to shield his eyes. When he lowers it, his brother is sitting in the chair where that empty body had been, raven tucked into his hand, staring just above Dean's head, where Dean knows Sam's Dust is settling. He gets it now, why Sam has always been so hypnotized by the stuff. Dean has seen it, and more importantly, Dean has felt Sam in it and seen what even his brother becomes without it.

He smiles, running to cut the bonds he'd used to keep that empty body still, and welcomes his brother back with a kiss.

**End.**


End file.
